


The Pound - addendum

by Steena



Series: The pound 'verse [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Knotting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biological Weapons, Bugs & Insects, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hacking, Hacking to control a mech, Humiliation, Kissing, Loneliness, Mech used as lab rat, Medical Experimentation, Mental Breakdown, Non-con sensory deprivation, Non-consensual self-fistfucking, Oral Sex, Phobia of parasites, Rape, Rape as Entertainment, Reseal, Roleplay, Sadism, Sexual elctro-torture, Work Camp, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-05 14:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16812616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steena/pseuds/Steena
Summary: The prompt-drabbles from the competition in the Pound. Same verse, but might not actually be something that happens in the plotline.





	1. Barricade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barricade flirting. For decipherbillcipher.

Barricade glances at the Sniper for the thirty fifth time in the last fourty minutes, feeling helplessly awkward and out of his depth. _Should it really be this hard?_ The Interceptor knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Crosshairs is indeed attracted to him, _why_ is it so hard to show the Sniper that it's reciprocated?

He shifts around again, spark spinning quickly where he's sitting next to the Corvette on the couch, and he catches Crosshairs glancing at him, blue optics falling on Barricades lap, before slowly sliding up the Saleen's frame until their optics meet. Then Crosshairs smirk at him, before turning back to watch the movie.

Barricade is flushed, feeling naked under those optics, but the heat behind his interface plate is what's most noticeable. _Is it really that easy? Damn his inexperience with flirting. It was so much easier with the Decepticons; just a crude "wanna frag?" and it was done. Or,_ which was usually the case _, wasn't, since most Cons were wary of interfacing. On the other servo, with this particular Autobot, that might work._

But Barricade isn't sure he really wants to interface. It's one thing to get hot and bothered and want to do... _something._ Actually _doing_ the spike-in-valve part of facing might still be too much. But he wants to make his interest known somehow, and maybe do... _something._

He moves his leg closer to Crosshairs, so their thighs rub against each other. Then he mimics the way Crosshairs gave him a once over. When he meets the Sniper's optics again, Crosshirs smirks again, raising an optical ridge. Barricade smiles coyly before he turns back to the TV.

Crosshairs presses his thigh closer to Barricade's and rubs slightly. The Interceptor looks at their point of contact.

"You have very nice legs." Barricade finally manage to get out, his voice sounding squeaky with nerves. He slides a trembling servo along the diagonally mounted plating on the Sniper's thigh.

"Thank ye." Crosshairs says, not making a big deal of it and Barricade is thankful for that. 

The Sniper throws an arm across his shoulders, dragging a servo along Barricade's shoulder-wing. It makes the Decepticon shudder, the soft touch to the sensitive part very pleasurable.

"There's so much 'bout ye tha' I like, I don' even know where te start..." Crosshairs murmurs. "But I 'ave 'ad one or two little fantasies of gettin' a chance te wrap my legs around those hips of yers."

Barricade feels his optics brighten. Yes, of course _Crosshairs_ would have no problem to say something like that. _It's incredibly flattering, though._ Barricade looks the Sniper over again. _There's plenty there to like too._

"The way your ventral plating tapers is very... _.inspiring."_ Barricade says, going for a purr, the way he's heard the Autobots leer at each other.

"Mhm, points ye righ in the direction of my needy little valve." Crosshairs whispers, as if telling a secret.

The Sniper spreads his legs, as Barricade's servo slowly slides higher and higher. The Saleen is almost tremling with nervous arousal. Crosshairs draws a sharp invent when Barricade close in on the seam to the Corvette's interface plate, intake slightly open, optics focused on that servo.

"You're so pretty." Barricade mumbles, not even thinking about saying it. He stops the advancement of his servo, uncertain and nervous and not quite ready for this to escalate even more so quickly.

"Ye wan't to slow down?" Crosshairs says, voice strained. "Because, if ye keep touchin' me there, my panel is goin' te fly off somewhere..." 

Then he smirks, and Barricades spark does a funny revolution. _The Paratrooper is very attractive._ Barricade pulls his servo away, uncertain how to proceed now. He stares at Crosshairs lip-plates, pulled into that trademark smirk that isn't the same as he would pull when he was particularly satisfied with blasting some Con's helm to smithereens during the war.

"Your lips look...lickable?" Barricade says uncertainly, the compliment coming out as a question. _He really isnt very good at this._

"I may or may not 'ave toyed with the fantasy of some edgy game with yer sharp denta over the years... So a lick or ten would be very welcome." Crosshairs says, licking his lips for emphasis.

_Barricades denta?! He has had those folded since not long after his surrender. Did Crosshairs just imply that he has been wanting Barricade since they were still on opposite sides of the war?_ Then he dismisses that process. He can think about that later, when he isn't staring at the slow slide of Crosshairs glossa over soft lip-plates.

The Mustang leans in slowly, still a bit hesitant. _The Decepticons never did this._ He drags his glossa along the Snipers bottom lip, spark spinning wildly with nerves and excitement. Then Crosshairs glossa snakes out to meet his, velvety soft and firm at the same time, langorously rolling around Barricade's. The Paratrooper tilts his helm slightly, deepening the kiss by coaxing Barricades tongue into his mouth. Their lip-plates make contact, silky and soft, brushing sensually against each other. 

Barricades mind goes blank, because the only thing important right then is to savor every sensation.


	2. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Decepticon doing some spiking. For Roaming Firefly.

They are in his berth again. Blackout really enjoys everything he has done with Drift; they've fingered each other, licked each other's valves and Drift has spiked Blackout, which the Helo enjoyed, even though he was a little nervous at first. Drift isn't a big mech, and that makes it a bit easier to relax around the Triple changer.

But this time, he wants something different. Blackouts spike is chafing against his panel, and it's agony to keep the plate closed. Drift is straddling his lap, it's one of their favorite positions, and Blackout almost feel bad, because all he can think of is pressurizing his spike straight into that weeping valve that's _so_ close.

But he isn't a bastard like that, so he forcefully keeps his panel shut, feeling it slowly fill up with pre-transfluid. The Sikorsky adds another digit into Drifts valve, mercilessly teasing his node to coax that opening to be ready for him if he dares asking. The Bugatti mewls and twith against his digits, getting close to his overload. 

Blackout stops teasing that node, stills his thick digits buried in the tight heat.

"Wha... _why?!_ Don't stop!" Drift whines, field thick with frustration.

"I want to fuck you. Would you consider allowing me to spike you?" Blackout murmurs, careful about not pressuring Drift, even as he almost grinds his denta because of how much he needs to release his spike.

Drift's optics brighten. The Helo can feel the hesitance in the smaller mech's field, and it is easily understandable why he would be insecure after what he went through, and considering the massive size of his current partner.

"If you say so, we stop. I don't want you to do something you're not comfortable with. And you _know_ I can't hurt you. My collar would make me a twitching wreck in a spark rotation."

Drift invents shakily before he finally nods.

"I know. I'm just nervous." The Samurai's intake quirks into a small and hesitant smile. "Primus, I feel like a virgin again. Which is stupid considering how much I have interfaced over the years." Something self derisive starts to seep into Drift's field.

"That doesn't matter. You've never done it with _me_ before." Blackout hesitates for a second. "Can I release my spike? I think I'll blow a gasket soon if I keep fighting the pressurization..."

Drift laughs shakily and nods. "Go ahead, release the beast." Then his blue optics brighten when Blackout's massive equipment extends between them.

The position where it bobs between them gives a perspective of just how small Drift is compared to the Helo. _And the Helo's spike._ They sit there in stunned silence, Blackout staring a how far up Drift's ventral plating it reaches, Drift staring at the weeping head. Then he leans forward to lick the dribbles of pre-transfluid away.

"If you ride me, you choose for yourself how much you want to take?" Blackout suggests. _He honestly didn't think of what he was actually asking Drift to do, how much to take._ Then be can't help but smirk and wiggles his digits, still buried in Drift's valve. "You are pretty loosened up..."

Drift looks down and makes a small eeping sound, embarrassment seeping into his field. He looks up at Blackout, and smiles shyly.

"I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I-I can try being on top." 

Drift lifts off Blackout's digits and lines the bigger mech's spike up with his valve. Then the Bugatti slowly starts to sink down the hard length. Blackout groans. He isn't very experienced with the spiking thing, and he hasn't done it for a very long time. That quivering heat slowly enveloping him is almost too much, and he grinds his denta and fights the building charge.

"Oh, this feels so good." Drift mewls. "You're so big, all my inside nodes are touched at once." 

Blackout's optics are riveted to where Drifts snug valve slowly swallows more and more of his thick spike. His servos curl around the Samurai's hips, but he's careful to not steer, to not force or make the smaller mech feel restrained. Drift doesn't take him all the way inside before he lifts off a bit. Then he sinks down again, a little further this time. He slowly starts to ride Blackout, grabbing the larger Helo's plating to steady himself.

Blackout feels the coiling charge in the pit of his stomach, building towards his release, but he can tell that Drift is getting close too. The Triple changer is able to take all of Blackout's spike now, and the Helicopter reaches between the Autobot's thighs to rub his node with one of his digits.

The Bugatti throws his helm back and wails wordlessly when he overloads, and Blackout just can't hold back a single second more. His transfluid is pumped into that clenching valve, being forced out around his spike since Drift is so stuffed, there isn't even room for the fluid. 

The hot stream inside him makes Drift overload again, before slumping against Blackout's front. The Decepticon slowly strokes Drift's rotors soothingly,

"We're going to do this again." Drift mumbles dopily. "I can't believe I hesitated. There really isn't anything like taking big dick."

Blackout chuckles. Sometimes, Drift is so crude, but that's just endearing.


	3. Vortex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Prowl and Vortex. For Fadedlikethelilac.

"Thank you, darling husband." Vortex giggles coyly while walking past Prowl into the Autobot's berthroom.

Prowl bows with a flourish as he holds the door open for the Helicopter.

"I know we are supposed to consummate this marriage, but I'm afraid I-I... I don't know how." Vortex says, looking at the floor.

"Do not worry. I am certain that you will be just fine, even though it is your first time." Prowl says. as he walks over to the berth.

_His first time, he's untouched_. Vortex's coding rearranges a few files, starts up a few processes. He feels the shyness roll over him as a sheer cloth, covering him to make him feel awkwardly nervous instead of his usual wanton need. _His Master wants him to be innocent, and he can be_. The calipers of his valve starts to tighten, mimicking a virgin valve.

"Come here and lay down." Prowl instructs him, gesturing to the berth.

Vortex does, slowly leaning back with a nervous gasp. He crawls up until he rests his helm on the fluffy pillows. 

"Nervous?" Prowl asks.

"Yes." Vortex whispers, flushing.

"Do not worry. You are very pretty and I will try to make this good for you." The Autobot soothes in a low murmuring voice while taking something out of a drawer.

A sheet is thrown over Vortex's frame, covering him. Somehow, it makes him feel less bared and exposed, in spite of the hole that leaves his array visible. Prowl crawls onto the berth and lays down next to the Decepticon. he smooths a servo down the Helicopter's frame, the fabric between the making an interesting and unfamiliar sensation to Vortex, not at all unpleasant.

"Relax, and enjoy yourself. I derive great pleasure from giving you pleasure." Prowl murmurs.

Vortex takes a shaky invent as that servo trails down his frame, touches ghosting lightly to not rumple the sheet. Then digits slide through his folds, and he gasps in surprise, because his coding is telling him that he has never felt something like it before. The tip of one digit teases lightly against something very sensitive, and he groans, twitching slightly.

The Helicopter flushes, embarrassed by his wanton reaction to such a small touch. Prowls digit keeps circling his node, pressure increasing minutely, and Vortex can feel moisture start to seep out of his Valve. Prowl slides his digit through slick folds and Vortex mewls when the tip teases the entrance to his channel. The digit slides inside, wriggling to hit nodes that has never been touched before and Vortex grinds down.

"Does it feel good?" Prowl purrs in a sultry voice Vortex has never heard the Autobot use before.

" _Yes!_ Very good." Vortex whimpers.

A pressure is building low in his stomach, a coil that's winding tighter with every delicate touch to his heated array. 

"I think I....ooh, what's happening?!" Vortex whines, not wanting it to stop, but still uncertain of what is happening to his frame.

"Your overload is imminent." Prowl murmurs, rubbing his thumb against that sweet spot just in front of Vortex's valve.

The coil suddenly is released, his valve pulsing heavily and Vortex's hips jerk in time with the contractions. He comes down slowly, frame lax, and he feels wonderfully relaxed.

"Are you ready for me?" Prowl asks.

"Yes!" Vortex hisses, eager for more.

The Autobot climbs on top of him, and Vortex spreads his legs wider to give Prowl better access. He tenses up when the head of a spike presses against his opening, suddenly nervous again.

"Try to relax. It might hurt at first, but it'll pass." Prowl soothes him.

Vortex nods shakily and forces his frame to relax. Then Prowl surges forward and the Decepticon whimpers as he's stretched. The Autobot stills when he's hilted, waiting for Vortex to get used to being filled. Vortex slowly relaxes when the first sharp pain dulls to an ache. 

"Are you ok?" Prowl murmurs in his audial.

"Y-yes. I think so?"

"Can I start moving?"

Vortex hesitates for long seconds before he answers. "Yes."

Prowl reaches between them, circling Vortex's node again, and starts to slowly thrust. The wetness of the Helo's valve makes for a slick glide, and the initial discomfort is soon traded for charge coiling in his array. He lets out a gasp of pleasure.

The Autobot increases the pressure on his node, rubbing harder, and speeds up his thrusts. Vortex teeters on the edge, putting his pedes on Prowls aft to make the Praxian push in deeper. Prowl heeds the silent request, overloading as he pushes in as deep as possible. It brings Vortex over, and they cling to each other, grinding and bucking.

Prowl goes limp on top of him, depressurizing spike sliding out of Vortex's valve, followed by transfluid and lubricant dribbling down the Helo's aft.

"I really enjoyed this, Vortex. I haven't been this satisfied in a long time. Please stay and rest for a while." Prowl mumbles drowsily.

Vortex's coding settles, allowing the Helo to truly relax for the first time since Prowl bought him. He drifts off to recharge with a stupid smile on his face, the Autobot still sprawled on top of him.


	4. Jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz, at the marketplace. For Marysol.

The Saleen's field is a roiling morass of negative emotions when Jazz finally manages to pick it up through the crowd, and a second later, he understands why. The Spy's anxiety is quickly replaced with white hot fury when he spots that utter bastard, piece of slag, fucking shit-helm of a previous owner of Barricade.

The Decepticon is standing completely still, seemingly calm, but his field is so disgusted, so ashamed, and that mech looks so satisfied with whatever he's up to, Jazz just wants to bash his helm to an unrecognizable mess of crushed components. He has seen some of the things that Barricade has suffered at this mechs servos, and his cruelty goes far beyond the average vengeful spite.

Pushing through the crowd feels like swimming through syrup, and when he reaches them, he wastes no time before snaking his arms around _his_ Mustang. Of course Barricade takes it the wrong way, but there's not much he can do, but try to protect the Interceptor, to hide his private parts. He bites down on the Saleen's neck-cables with more force than he intended in his urgent need to mark Barricade as one of his, as someone off limits to _disgusting rapists_.

The spy notice how wet Barricade's valve is, and he's livid, because he just knows that some of the progress they've actually made will be ruined after this. He focuses closely on the Saleen, puts a secondary process at answering the vile bastard when he opens his foul mouth, because that piece of scrap doesn't deserve all of Jazz's attention. _The mech is soon going to be dead anyway, that much he vows while holding the Decepticon trembling in his arms._

He harshly tells Barricade to keep quiet, because he has to keep up appearances, and hurries for his apartment and a chance to hash this out with the terrified Saleen, well aware of Barricade's fear once again focusing on him.

_It's so dissparkening._ What little progress they've made is ruined, and Jazz just wants to stop and tell Barricade that he isn't mad at him, that it isn't Barricade's fault, that Jazz won't punish the Interceptor. But he can't, because they are still out in public, and the closer to his apartment they get, the more terrified Barricade is.

Jazz hasn't realized before exactly how little Barricade actually trusts him to not hurt the Interceptor. It stings, of course, but more than that, it makes the Spy realize that it just isn't enough to just keep being nice and let Barricade figure out that Jazz is going to take good care of him. The Saleen still holds on to his distrust and fear. 

It's a revelation he'd rather not have had, but at the same time, now he can actually act and try to break through to the Decepticon trailing in his wake, field thick and cloying with his frightened resignation.Barricade is clearly expecting that Jazz is going to beat him to within a foot of his functioning, and rape him the last inches when they get home. 

_Oh, how he beats himself up for not being more vigilant, for not keeping Barricade safe at the market._ But the Saleen was right there, was so careful to stay close, and Jazz just took a few more steps to look at those datapads...

There's no point in dwelling on it, the damage is already done. The only thing Jazz can do now is carefully plan the upcoming conversation, and prepare himself for anything Barricade might say. He's drawing up several contingency plans, depending on the Saleen's reaction.

The Spy is well aware that this might get him to a point where he'll be forced to do things he'd rather not even think about, that Barricade might choose what Jazz thinks is the wrong option. In that case the Solstice will make anything to persuade Barricade to give it one last try, bit there are no guarantees. 

_But there's no other way, he has to do it like this to snap Barricade out of his mental and emotional rut. It doesn't make it easier._

So the Spy does the only thing he can; he degausses his field and pushes down the half-processed energon in the back of his intake, spark spinning wildly with terror for what he's about to do.


	5. Skywarp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For zeewing.

The first two of his owners are easy to satisfy. They just want a very willing Seeker who tries to seduce them, or just doesn't ever say no, and that's a good fit for Skywarp.

The third one though, he's harder to satisfy. The first time Skywarp was with him, the Seeker realized that he is a sadist. The mech would pinch Skywarp's protoform, spank him some and tug harshly at sensitive wiring. That wasn't a problem; Skywarp has been with mechs like that before. His protocols plays along and turns him into a masochist, and since the mech was careful not to damage Skywarp, he didn't mind. 

But this mech wants to be rougher than that. He wants Skywarp to suffer on a level where it passes the point of just kinky fun in the berth. The co-owners doesn't want the Seeker to get damaged though, so he can't use more force. It all boils down to a new problem.

_The mech can't get it up_. No matter what Skywarp does, his spike doesn't fully pressurize. The Seeker can suck all day and half the night, until his jaws are _aching_ , and still the spike in his intake is flaccid. Trying to get it into his valve isn't even worth thinking about; it just won't get inside.

_His Master isn't satisfied._ The pain rolls over him in waves, and Skywarp falls to his knees, _begging_ for forgiveness for being so worthless, he can't even make his Master aroused. The Seeker presses his servos against his helm, writhing in agony when something hot and sticky lands on his wings.

_Transfluid._ The smell hits Skywarp's olfactory sensors. He looks up at the mech in surprise and sees the Autobot's blissed out optics, the depressurizing spike in his servo. _The mech is satisfied? But how? Why? He needs to know, so he can do it again, whatever it was he did to finally get the mech to overload._

His coding analyze the situation and draws the conclusion that the mech actually is. The pain subsides, his protocols settling.

"Are you satisfied, Sir?" Skywarp purrs. "Or do you want _more_?" He needs to learn how to satisfy the Autobot.

The mech looks at him with a confused look on his faceplates. Then he seems to come to a conclusion and smirks slyly.

"Not quite. You have to do better than that."

Skywarp flinches when he feels the familiar twinge in his processor, but he doesn't miss the twitch the Autobot's spike does when the Seeker's servo goes to his helm on instinct.

"Tell me what to do, Sir!" Skywarp whines.

"Keep sucking my spike."

He rises to his knees and starts to suckle on the still soft spike. It hardens slightly, but full pressurization isn't reached.

"You're not very good at this..." The mech sighs, sounding bored.

Skywarp whines in pain and flinches rather violently. It makes the spike pressurize more, and he hears his owner groan happily.

"Oh, yes...." The mech hisses.

Skywarp's coding backs off, and his charge starts to rise. _The mech is satisfied._ He mewls wantonly.

The spike immediately goes limp.

"No! Now you're doing it wrong again." The mech growls.

Skywarp wails, spike still in his intake, with the wave of agony traveling his systems.

The mech moans, bucking his hips as his spike gets hard again.

For the first time in a very long time, Skywarp realize that he's not going to enjoy one of his Master's kinks.


	6. Motormaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stunticons and Twins getting along, just hanging out. For MooseKababs.

It's easier than Motormaster ever thought it would be, to get along with a couple of Autobots. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are much older than him an his brothers of course, but they're still not that old. And the way they interact is very familiar to the gestalt mech; they're brothers too.

Motormaster is propped up with pillows on the couch, surrounded by the others. He still gets very tired after his physical therapy, so it feels nice to not even be forced to hold himself up in a sitting position, but he still has energy enough to bring the cube to his lip-plates himself, and it feels like such a victory. _He never thought that he would be this happy just to be able to drink energon by himself, that such a mundane thing would bring him an almost overwhelming sense of freedom. On the other servo, he never thought that he would witness a scene like the one in front of him either._

Sunstreaker is helping Wildrider fix his paint after the punch Motormaster managed to land on the smaller Stunticon's faceplates. The Autobot is meticulous as usual, and Wildrider is antsy as usual, and they bicker between themselves about how Wildrider has to stay still and how Sunstreaker has been doing it for hours. They're both right, though Motormaster readily admits that they probably would've been done by now if Wildrider had managed to keep from fidgeting. Sunstreaker, infamous for his short temper and lack of patience has been very calm about it so far. The golden warrior seems to have something of a soft spot for the slightly crazy mech and tends to let things slide, but he does have his limits.

"Will you just stay still for two minutes? Then it'll all be done!" Sunstreaker says, exasperation in his voice.

"But you said that half an hour ago!" Wildrider whines.

"Well if you'd listened back then it would've been done by now." Sunstreaker grumps.

Wildrider is about to object but Motormaster cuts him off. "Sunstreaker is right. Just hold still and let him finish." 

"Thank you Motormaster." Sunstreaker says, smirking approvingly at the truck.

It's kind of strange, but Motormaster never felt as much approval from the Decepticons as he has from the twins. They were mostly seen as the weird bunch who couldn't live up to the expectations. The unwanted children who failed to measure up. Weird ones, because they didn't really know much of Cybertron, since they grew up on Earth and learned everything they knew there. The Autobots are more open to other cultures, and relate to the Stunticons quirks more easily.

Wildrider sulks, but remains quiet and actually tries to be still. Motormaster catches Drag Strip glancing at them with an odd little quirk of his intake. It takes the gestalt leader a few seconds to realize that it's a soft smile he's seeing on the other Stunticon's face. It's such an unusual expression, something he isn't quite used to yet, but he can understand what makes Drag Strip look so...content.

Drag Strip is playing video games with Sideswipe, something they often do in the evenings. They have bonded over their mutual love of video games from Earth. Sunstreaker isn't an avid player and Sideswipe seems thrilled to have someone to share his passion with.

The golden twin is done with Wildrider's paint, and everyone groans in exasperated relief when the Stunticon shoots up from his seat, finally allowed to move around again. Wildrider darts off, excited to see his newly painted plating and Motormaster sees Sunstreaker smirk in satisfaction when the Stunticon squeals excitedly from the other room. Of course he would be thrilled, Sunstreaker would never settle for anything less than perfect.

"Motormaster, do you want to play?" Drag Strip asks, holding his controller out to his gestalt leader.

The big Stunticon stares at the controller for long seconds, indecisive. _He's better now, but can he do it? Is his motor control good enough?_

Then he shakes that feeling off. _If he sucks, they won't laugh at him anyway, so what does he have to lose?_ He stretches his servo out to take the controller, and the way Drag Strip beams at him for wanting to participate makes it worth it even if they all would wind up laughing at Motormaster's bad video game driving skills.

Yes, it's really quite nice here with his little thrown together bunch of brothers.


	7. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackout shares memories. For Zenwiccan.

Blackout stares at the cable Ironhide is holding out to him as if it was the head of a very venomous snake. Apprehensively, he plucks the cable from the Weapons specialist's digits and plugs it into his socket. _He isn't hesitant about hardlining with Ironhide per se. Just the purpose of these specific hardlines that they do daily now._

There's no forceful intrusion this time either, just a presence politely requesting access. He still shudders at what he will have to do. Ironhide reaches out across the table, digits grazing Blackout's servo. 

"I know that this is hard for you, and I greatly appreciate that you do it. It's very helpful." The Topkick murmurs soothingly.

Blackout nods and prepares the memory. He still can't decide what's worse: to see what has been done to him, watch it like a spectator, or to have Ironhide see it. It's so different to relive it without the pain and terror; now he really notice all the heinous details, the humiliating facts of what he has been through. Instead of just being another rape after another round of torture, he's free to notice the small differences; what kind of whips they used, which toys they shoved into him, how many overloaded down his throat this time. And Ironhide sees it as Blackout does, watches his revelations as they come, and probably sees details Blackout is still missing. _And this one is a particularly humiliating memory._ The first times, he chose memories that weren't as bad, but he figures that he will run out of those quickly, and it's better to just get this over with, to get used to showing memories like these. It still leaves a bitter taste in his intake to have a mech he has respected as a dangerous opponent for so long, a mech he really has come to like, watch him at his lowest.

Ironhide grasps his digits and pulls his servo closer, lacing their digits. Blackout stares at their servos, caught off guard by the sweet gesture that isn't typically an Ironhide thing to do. 

"Don't be ashamed of things others have done to you. There was nothing you could do to stop it, it was not your fault and I think you are very brave to have survived it." Ironhide murmurs, thumb rubbing soothing circles into Blackout's servo, field encouraging.

Blackout nods, not really feeling better about it. _It's one thing to try to convince himself of this, a whole different matter to actually believe it._

"I...it's just...this memory is from the time they busted the calipers in my valve, Sir. And other stuff. And then my trip to the medbay." The Helo states at the tabletop. "I really hated those washings, Sir." He whispers, mortified.

"For good reasons, I'm sure. I understand that this is humiliating for you, but it will help us both. We have done this five times, and I have already picked up over twenty things that might be triggering for you that didn't have a clue about before, things I might have done or said without thinking about it that you might have found terrifying. 

Blackout looks up, almost startled by the revelation. "More than _twenty?!"_

Ironhide gives him a small smile that's rather sad. "Yeah. Let's just say I cleaned out the cupboard in the washracks, rearranged the datapads and removed quite a few books and movies and a few other things, on top of getting a few situations and actions to be careful about."

The Decepticon stares at the Weapons specialist for over a minute, processing that. _If that's true, then maybe sharing these memories is worth his discomfort?_ Ironhide doesn't rub it in, doesn't do anything to make it feel worse, just watches them with him. And as unsavory as the memories are, it still gives him a feeling of finality when he has watched one. It's _memories,_ not his current living conditions. 

Maybe it's a good thing? He starts up the memory, feeling slightly less bad about it. 


	8. Blitzwing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blitzwing, before he went to the Pound and was euthanized. For Chirocco.
> 
> Lots of gross bugs in this chapter.

Harvesting chrystals is very hard work. They get up before the sunrise and they work long past sunset. Blitzwing is lucky if he manages to stay out of recharge long enough to drink his ration every night. It isn't that unusual that he falls asleep with his cube half-finished and finishes it on his way out in the morning, when the horn blares at them to get to work, and do it fast.

_Primus, he's so tired. What wouldn't he give to be back on Earth, on the rations they considered slim back then? Rations that were twice as much as what he's running on now._

The audial splitting siren chases them out of the filthy outcroppings that are the only shelters they have against the cold of the Cybertronian nights, the glitchmosquitos easily finding the recharging mechs to steal from their already measly levels of energon, turbobugs crawling all over their frames to feast on whatever nanites and metals fits their tastes. It's the only upside with being forced to run until he's so haggard; Blitzwing always had a phobia of bugs and other creepy crawlies. The first few weeks here, he didn't recharge at all. Now though, he's always so tired, he recharges as if he was in stasis.

Granted, he could be considered to be crazy already back then, with his split personality, but he started a slow descent deeper into madness. Icy was the first one to go completely insane. He just couldn't handle the long nights in the bug infested pit he had dig dug himself in the dirt to serve as a berth, glitchmice and bugs and other nasty things skittering over his protoform. Lack of recharge, along with the creepy crawlies had the cool and aloof side of him break. It wasn't pretty. Babbling incoherently, clawing at his plating as he tried to tear it off to get to the disgusting bugs slithering between the cabling and wires of his deeper systems, he had to be restrained lest he'd damage himself. _They couldn't have that, he hadn't earned enough to have repaid the expenses for buying him._ Then Icy finally gave up, retreated into his processor to never be seen again. Hothead and Random still could hear him though, knew when he had severe panic attacks in there and they had to fight to not be pulled down with him.

Hothead was the second to go. Anger just didn't lead anywhere. No matter how furious he was, he was still helpless to change anything. His outbursts and futile efforts to fight back were quickly and brutally beaten down. The guards are ruthless, and their systems function fully, unlike the Decepticon slaves, who are stunted and underfueled and still forced to work until they start to burn out. Hothead slowly started to give up. The only thing he was good at did only lead to pain, to being less functional and to struggle even more to even get through the days. He became less and less angry, slowly falling into a depression that left him numb and apathetic. He retreated into Blitzwing's processor too, but his presence is hardly noticeable. _If he's even there_. Hothead might've died, and Blitwing wouldn't even be able to tell, considering how quiet Hothead has been since his retreat.

Maybe Random was just the right brand of crazy to deal with the circumstances, or maybe he was just unlucky enough to be the one persona last standing. Whatever the reason, that doesn't mean that he's coping well with this functioning. He isn't more fond of having creepy crawlies all over his frame than the others were. And he's probably the personality least likely to make friends in this Primus-forsaken pit. The other Decepticons has given up on old habits of not getting close; they share berth-pits to share warmth, help each other with minor repairs and share their energon, if one of them seem to need a little extra for their self repair to manage after an unusually severe punishment.

Blitzwing has none of that. They all look at him with contempt and distrust, sometimes bordering on fear. So whenever Random goes and does something... _random_ that gets him punished, he's forced to deal with the aftermath all by himself. When the others help each other to get the bugs out from between cables and wires, he's forced to accept that he has personal pets that are slowly helping to erode his already withering health. His servos are cuffed together after each shift now, to keep him from tearing his plating out in his desperate attempts to get rid of all the creepy crawlies.

There's only so much a mech can take. Random is at his breaking point. He babbles and cackles to himself all day and all evening, scratching at himself, not always because of bugs these days. He catches the guards watching him more often, more closely, but he just grins his crazy smile at them and pays them no more mind. _As long as he's filling his quota, he won't be beaten_. He'll get his measly ration of energon. The warning about his fuel levels in his HUD blinks more insistently. _The creepy crawlies are slowly eating him alive._

For some reason, he finds that funny, in a terrifying way. Blitzwing starts laughing hysterically, throwing his tools down as he starts tearing at one of his plates in panic. _He needs to get at the bugs, needs to tear them out from his frame, stop them from eating him._ He manages to tear a plate free, energon oozing sluggishly from the severed lines and he stares in shock. _Cyberleeches are crawling over his protoform, so many that it looks like a shifting ball of the humans' spaghetti._ He starts cackling madly even as he purges, clawing deep gouges in his protoform to get the creepy crawlies away from him.

His vents are speeding up, going ragged, and his optical feed is dimming as his engine stutters and coughs with the the irregular supply of air for the combustion. Then everything spins in a bout of vertigo. Blitzwing is crashed into reboot before he hits the ground. 


	9. Barricade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Neveralarch. Barricade having a flashback to the days with his second Master.

It often happens when he's almost in recharge, as if he's about to have a defrag but winds up startling awake to be thrown into a flashback instead. His optics flash back online, but he can't see the ceiling. 

_All he can see is that horrible pit in the badlands his second Master took him to on several occassions._

It's a gritty canyon, surrounded by steep cliff walls, and no way out except past the gathered Autobots and their transports at the mouth of the crevasse. He's still crated, as he usually is, while the Bots mingle and sip their energon. He tries to see how many are there, but gives up. _It isn't like it matters anyway, he knows the game of predators and prey by now, and he doesn't look forward to it this time either. If they're ten or twenty won't change the inevitable outcome._ He sees his Master discuss something rather heatedly with a few other Autobots.

The door is opened and he's pulled out and pushed deeper into the canyon, noticing the cameras. That's new to these events. _Great_. He's shoved forward and falls to the ground.

"Listen up, Cons! New rules this time. You're going to fight _each other_. And to the victor goes the spoils, as usual." Barricade's Master says, smirking.

_What?_

Another Con is brought forward, a big Warframe Barricade isn't familiar with. The mech grins hungrily, all sharp denta and nasty intentions, and the Saleen is fairly certain that this mech comes straight from the bounty hunter, if the sadistic hunger in his calculating optics is anything to go by. Barricade's tank roils with anxiety.

"The rules are simple: the one of you who manages to frag the other is considered the winner. The winner gets to have his fun..." He holds up a big cube of energon. "this cube, and gets the night off. The loser is going to be a _very_ sore loser when we've all gotten what we want."

_The cube looks amazing, but what really makes his intake lubricate is the chance to have the night off. He never managed to win the games of chase the Con, has stopped believing in having a chance at all, but this is different. And he's newly resealed, postponing fragging a day will keep him slightly less uncomfortable._

Barricade sizes the other mech up. _He's big._ But that makes Barricade faster. _And he's probably more desperate too._

"Off you go." His Master leers before stepping back.

They circle each other, looking for weak points, Barricade cautious, the big Con confident. Then the Interceptor drops, spinning a low kick aimed at the mech's pedes.

_He miscalculates his own strength._ He hits just like he planned, but instead of the mech falling over, Barricade's pede bounces against the leg it hits in a pathetic display of how powerless he is nowadays. It knocks him off balance and he winds up sprawled on the ground. 

The Saleen feels the panic surge. _If he was fully functional, the mech would be down._

But he isn't, and instead, a big servo grips his sensitive shoulder-wing and pulls him up. Barricade's processor is doing a million miles a minute, and he can't help but hope that the other mech doesn't have access to his spike either. He didn't think about it until now, but he wasn't given access to his before this started.

_On the other servo, the mech could stuff other things into him that might be worse than a spike..._

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt when he's backhanded across the face, hard enough to spin him around and send him back to the ground on his front. The Saleen is still trying to get his bearings when the other Con straddles his aft and leans forward to cover his frame, disgusting servos trailing up Barricade's sides. He hears the audience catcalling. 

"I saw you with Nitro Zeus, you little whore. In that series of videos of the cheap cop car and the flightframe. To think that one of Lord Megatron's elite would be a cheap little slut like that..." The Con pants in his audial, field smothering him in unwelcome want.

His gyros finally stop spinning when the servos reach his hips, and Barricade does the only thing he can; he bucks up to throw the mech off of him.

The gathered Autobots snicker, and he hears someone commenting on the willing little whore offering to bottom.

He somehow manages to free himself enough to turn over, to get his legs between them to try to kick the mech, but the Warframe just grabs his ankle-struts and lifts, leaving Barricade with his upper back on the ground, his lower frame suspended. _Completely robbed of leverage_. The Interceptor flails, but it hardly makes a difference, and the mech grins when he holds Barricade helpless like that with one servo, the other toying with the Mustang's array.

A digit slides into Barricade's valve and he starts sobbing, knowing it is over. The mech's grin widens when he hits the seal and Barricade cries out in pain. The Saleen flails and squirms, tries desperately to free his legs, but the mech is too strong. His legs are pried apart and the mech grabs his hips, pulling Barricade's lower frame into his lap.

_It's revolting. The only options he has is lay like that and just take it, or get up, which will put him right in the lap of the mech while still not really providing any more leverage._

A spike pressurizes, rubbing against his opening, his anterior node, drooling pre-transfluid along the way until the thick head is visible even from his angle, and Barricade stares at the disgusting piece of equipment.. Then the mech lifts the Interceptor's hips and tilts them, forcing Barricade's back-struts to bend at an uncomfortable angle, and slides it home in one forceful thrust. 

Barricade screams in agony. No matter how many times he's resealed and subsequently unsealed, it never hurts less. His shoulder-wings scrape over the rough ground, the ridges along the Con's spike tugs at the reseal and he knows that they're all going to line up to do this to him all night. _He can hear them cheering._

"I feel generous today, so I'll give you a choice," the Con grins at him. "I'm going to knot you and fill you up real good. You get to choose where..."

_Considering the girth of this mech's spike, Barricade's jaw will probably be dislocated if he goes for his first choice. His valve is so sore, just the thought of a knot and the accompanying load is... well, fuck his functioning. Again._

"Aft." He whispers, the word tasting like half-processed energon and yet another defeat.

The mech bares his sharp denta in a victorious smirk. "Nice! Get on your knees and servos."

The mech pulls out, much to Barricade's relief, and the Interceptor turns over, gets into position. _Waiting like a bitch in heat for his stud._ He lets his helm loll forward and offlines his optics.

The audience cheers.

The mech mounts him, slides in to the hilt. _He's so used to taking it in the ass, it is just a minor discomfort compared to the reseal._ Then the knot starts to swell and it does get really uncomfortable. Barricade's worn talons scrabble across the ground and he grimace as the knot settles, tying them together. Then the mech groans and he feels the slow pulsing of the spike as transfluid is being pumped into him, filling him up.

The Con reaches around to pet Barricade's ventral plating as it slowly distends more and more, the spectators laugh, and the Interceptor cries, disgusted, humiliated and increasingly uncomfortable... 

_A loud noise startles him to sit up, and he looks around, disoriented at first._

_Jazz apartment._

He turns on the light and looks himself over. _No dents, no scrapes. Just old scars. His panel is closed._ Barricade opens his panel, staring down at his array. _No energon, no transfluid or lubricant._ He still slides a digit inside. _It doesn't hurt, and he doesn't hit a reseal._ The Saleen pulls his digit out and presses it against his port. _It closes reflexively and it's tight._

The Interceptor lets himself fall back with a sigh, plating trembling with lingering emotions. _Will he ever be able to go to recharge without being forced to remember things he'd rather forget?_


	10. Shockwave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave's fate, for The_Anonymous_Goose.

He thought that the Autobots would find his sharp intellect useful. Sure, he didn't expect to be allowed to continue with his own science, on his own terms. _Of course he didn't. Again; sharp intellect._

But somehow, he figured that he might be put into some form of community service program or something equally mundane and lacking in glory and prestige, and forced to research things for the greater good for free. It would be a very Optimus Prime thing to do. Inventing cheap vaccines for the poor, come up with affordable and environmentally friendly means of pest control and things like that. 

Then when the smoke settled and it was obvious that they were to become slaves, he actually got a little hopeful. Surely one of the big corporations would see the benefit of buying themselves a slave who would work for nothing but energon, would never be able to quit and go to another company for a better offer, taking years of research with them. A slave who would make them millions upon millions. It's what he would've done if he had a big company with a research departement and in extension the financial means to buy the best of the best of the prisoners turning slaves.

And he was sold at the auctions, to a science company he had heard about. From what he could remember, they were into weapons development, specializing in the more... _shady_ branches of the industry.

Sure, their front was a stand-up company, working mostly with counter measures, but he knew the rumors were true: the counter measures were just a byproduct, the real profit came from the sales of weapons no state would ever admit trading for. Nuclear, biological, chemical, a new strain of cybernetic viruses that, last he heard at least, were something even the board of the company was hesitant to put on the market.

So through his drug addled haze, he was quite happy with the outcome. He would be allowed to continue working, still enslaved of course, but still.... He could bury himself in work and get through whatever time this punishment would last for.

He wasn't an imaginative mech, so Shockwave wasn't exactly fantasizing about what his future would be like, but he calculated the most likely outcome and used logic to come up with the likeliest scenario.

Shockwave followed his new owners quietly, waiting for the drugs to wear off and his new functioning to begin.

He could never have guessed, fantasized or calculated what actually happened.

Upon arrival to the science lab, he was thoroughly cleaned in a rather invasive way if he was allowed to say anything about it. _But he wasn't._ Then he was herded into a small cell, smelling of strong sanitizers, barren of anything but a smooth slab for a berth, and left there in the dark. _Very undignified, but maybe he shouldn't have expected a room, with a soft berth, a desk and lights._ It would've been more practical, would've let him work late and recharge well to function at maximum capacity.

_On the other servo a few cubes of energon would've been the bare minimum to get him to acceptable standards, and he wasn't even given that._

Time passes slowly when locked up like that.

Eventually they come to get him. Shockwave has no idea how long he has been there, only that his rather low levels of energon has slowly ticked down to just above critical. His processor feels sluggish.

"Where are we going? I need fuel if I am to have any chance at filling anything near a purpose." He mumbles to the mechs walking him down the hallway with steady grips on his arms. 

They're both dressed in hazmat suits, and he can't understand why. _Surely he hasn't contracted any virulent diseases or parasites? Wouldn't he know?_ He has always been very meticulous about his hygiene during his long and numerous travels.

They don't answer him, and he's too tired to push for an answer. _It's probably above their paygrade anyway._ Either the suits are eliminating the guards' EM fields, or they're degaussing them. Not that Shockwave is very versed in reading fields. _EM fields mostly convey emotions, and he prefers to base everything on logic and facts. Emotions are a waste of time and a distracting complication. In his opinion, most bad decisions are made based on emotions._

His musings are interrupted when they come to a door. It opens automatically when they approach, and he's led into a lab. Shockwave feels comfortable in the sterile environment, feels right at home even though his processors feel very fuzzy and disorganized from his low fuel levels. Quite a few systems are put in energy saving mode.

The mechs in the hazmat suits leads him to a berth, and that feels wrong. _Why would they want him to recharge now? He'll only be able to make great achievements if he's online and fully operational._

_But he's so tired. Maybe just a little nap?_

He allows them to help him down and stretches out on the foam mattress, covered in a polymere he knows so well, a material he has used himself for surfaces that needed to be easy to keep clean. _Why would a berth be covered in that?_

Then his wrist-struts and ankle-struts are locked to the berth and his optic flares fully online when a needle is slipped into a line in his lower arm. They're hooking him up to an IL with what looks like energon. _Sorely needed._

Another mech steps up, and even through the suit, Shockwave recognize him as one of his most bitter rivals way back when. _When the Decepticon was still just a scientist, fighting for funding for his research. What was his name? It has been so long..._

The mech smirks. "Hello, Shockwave."

The Decepticon scientist just glares back. At least he thinks he's glaring. His frame still feels off, even though his energon levels are slowly rising.

"Speechless, I see. That doesn't matter; you don't need to speak to be useful. Did you know that I own this company? Do you know how much I make a year?" There's malicious glee in the mech's voice.

"I've heard some rumours." Shockwave answers.

"I bet you have. That leader of yours wanted to buy my weapons, and when I refused, he tried to get his servos on the blueprints. From what I heard, _your_ prototypes just weren't good enough."

"Most of them were functional." _They were! He can't help that most of the Decepticons just couldn't use them well enough._ Shockwave's calm and collected voice doesn't convey his frustration.

" _Functional."_ The mech scoffs. "You know as well as I do that ' _functional_ ' doesn't make the cut in a battle." The smirk is back again, nastier this time. "But, considering your position here, I guess that you are very well aware of that."

"What do you want with me? You know that I could be much more useful if you let me join my team!" Shockwave says, heatedly for being him. _He is getting rather tired of the situation._

"I guess you're right about that, but I don't see any amusement in letting you help my team. And where would the glory be in buying an opponent and lay claim to his inventions? No, Shockwave, I have much more fitting job for you. A job I will take great pleasure in watching you do." A see through force field lights up around the berth. "You'll help us test our newest weapons. This is a new strain of a techno-biological virus we have invented. It's actually an adaptation of a virus from that wretched dustball Earth that you all fought so hard for. The biological form is called 'raabees', I think?" The mech turns to one of his assistants who's preparing a syringe with something. The assistant nods. 

"Rabies." Shockwave corrects, disgusted.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." The mech waves him off. "Anyway, this is adapted and cyberformed, and the effects we've seen so far are pretty unsavory. But don't worry; the antidote mostly works, at least on the glitchmice."

The mech leans closer, grinning as Shockwave sees the needle slip into the line connected to his systems, watches the plunger be pushed.

"You're finally on the frontline of science!" The mech whispers cheerily.

Shockwave doesn't answer. He stares up at the ceiling just to get away from the mech, at least in the only way he can. He wonders what this strange hiccup in his spark is, and it takes him quite a while to recognize it, because he usually dismiss reactions like that.

_He's afraid._


	11. Ramjet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Sentinel's punishment of his slaves after their attack on Skywarp. For Chigrima.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, fat apology for this chapter being so late just because I'm a doof.

Ramjet should've known how sorry they all would be after the stunt they pulled on Skywarp. Oh, he wasn't naive enough to believe that they would get away with it. He just figured that they couldn't be put through worse things than they already had suffered. They all have taken their fair share of whippings and humiliating services in public when they hesitated to do disgusting things before, and he figured that it would be worth it. 

He should've known that Sentinel was going to come up with something so much worse.

The interrogation was bad enough, especially since it was completely unnecessary. They weren't taken in one by one, as would be normal during interrogation. No, they were alla forced to watch. Had to see each other be tormented, plating slowly torn out a piece at a time, the electric shocks to sensitive protoforms. And it was so cleverly and cruelly thought out, because while they would probably snitch if none of their fellow slaves were watching, they just wouldn't do that with everyone else present. So one by one, they were forced to suffer the same agony, had to sit there with their terror, knowing exactly what would happen to them when it was their turn. Not snitching.

The worst part was Sentinels amused smirk, the Interrogator's increasingly aroused field. Ramjet did consider confessing that he was the instigator, but he just didn't have the guts. Not with a professional Interrogator there, a mech with knowledge of how to inflict as much pain as possible, and a very obvious sadistic streak. So he did what the others did; he kept his mouth shut. And Sentinel didn't seem to mind one bit. He waited patiently, sipping cube after cube of high grade while the interrogation continued for hours.

But eventually, it seems like days have passed by now, they have all been questioned, and nothing of interest has come up. So the Interrogator unspools a cable from his wrist, an almost leering smirk when his optics slowly slide over the tied up slaves, lined up along the wall. His optics land on Ramjet, smirk widening as he cocks his helm.

"You seem to be the type to know stuff. I'll start with you."

The Seeker is grabbed and dragged to the middle of the floor. He can't stop a whimper from leaving him. _He has never been truly hacked before, just the modifications done to his systems after his capture._ The mech holds him down with a pede on his back and tears the cover out uncarefully. Ramjet whines, but he can't tell if its the pain or the fear that makes him whimper.

A plug is jammed into his socket, and the Conehead's spark spins so fast, he feels like its going to explode. He dry heaves, the utter terror making his tank constrict around what little is in it.

Then vertigo hits when another presence slips right through his firewalls and commandeer his systems. He screams, but no sound comes out, the screaming echoing inside his processor as all control of his frame is handed over to the intruder. His optics shut down and so does his audials. Deaf, blind and mute, frame completely unresponsive he's entirely in the servos of the Interrogator, and he feels like he's falling into reboot out of sheer terror. 

_He isn't allowed to_. Feeling the amusement of the mech invading his systems, the mech forces Ramjet's processor to follow everything he does, every memory that is taken out and examined. The Seeker's sensor suites are still connected, and he can feel the touches to his prone form; the slide of servos down his wings, the way his aft is cupped by an unwanted servo.

It doesn't take the Interrogator long to find all the evidence he needs; the plan Ramjet made, the mechs who helped him scout their options and acquire things for building that taser. _Where they hid it after the crime was done._

And still the Interrogator doesn't pull back, doesn't let go of his systems. Instead, the Seeker's frame starts to move without Ramjet's permission. _The mech is using him as a puppet_. There's cold, sadistic pleasure there inside his systems, like an entity feeding off of the Seeker's terror, and inside his helm, Ramjet is crying like a sparkling, but he can't tell if he does it out loud too or if that isn't allowed by his puppeteer.

He feels his shackles be released, and how he rolls over on his back, legs splayed wide, and he''s terrified of what they're going to do to him when he's this vulnerable. Then the tips of his digits push against the rim of his valve, slowly easing inside. _Of course this is what they'd do. Just another crude show._ But then his calipers are starting to protest at the increasing stretch as all his fingers are pushed deeper and deeper into himself. It hurts, and there's warnings popping up in his HUD, but he can do nothing about his own servo slowly pushing deeper and deeper into his valve

_It's disgusting and humiliating, the ultimate way to turn his frame against himself._ The Seeker fights feebly against the iron control of his systems, but there's nothing he can do, the mech is much too skilled. He senses the amusement, and catches a warning of his other servo possibly being shved somewhere else, and he stops fighting the intrusion. _But surrender doesn't change anything, because he's still a helpless puppet, still can't make it easier on himself._

A few of the calipers in his valve are stretched beyond their limits, snapping with a sudden pain and then losing their power. _He won't tighten up fully after this, if they don't decide to repair him._ It's such a defeat, but his disgust only fuel the mech invading him's lust and amusement. His entire servo settles in his valve, too big and unyielding, and Ramjet wants to writhe in pain, because it hurts, he wants to crawl away and hide from this humiliation, because even though he can't see them, he knows that they're all there, watching him fistfuck himself.

Then his other servo starts moving too, and Ramjet is alarmed, because at first, he thinks that the mech is going to force him to shove his other servo up his port, but then his servo closes around something on the floor, something that must've been placed there after he lost his optical and audial feed. Something he's familiar with, he realizes with a sinking spark.

_His homemade taser._

His terror ramps up to new levels when his servo slowly, almost sensually, drags the taser down his ventral plating, closer and closer to his array. The tip comes to rest against one of his valve-lips, and the Seeker wishes that he could scream and cry, that he could beg them for mercy, but he can't do anything but lay there and wait for the awful moment when...

The command is sent and his thumb presses the button. Electricity course through his entire array. The calipers in his valve spasms uncontrollably, the power of the squeeze feeble with so many of them out of alignment. It's excruciating, and if he had been in control of his own frame he would be howling in agony, he would be doing anything to get away from there.

But he isn't in control, and all he can do is lay there and wait for the mech to allow his thumb to release the button. It feels like hours before it's over, but Ramjet is fairly certain that it wasn't more than seconds, or he would probably have lost control of his waste tank too. A small mercy in this undignified position.

Then his servo moves again, to his other valve-lip, and he hardly has time to start panicking before he's forced to push the button again, new current making his valve pulse with the contradictory input of an artificially induced overload on way to high voltage that's incredibly painful and not pleasurable at all. 

There's a smell of burnt circuitry spreading through the room, that much he can tell, but he still doesn't know what else is going on, and that's terrifying in itself. Bet then that tip of the taser is moved to his anterior node, and Ramjet's full focus is pulled to himself, to the positively gleeful presence in his processor that's cloyingly aroused and horrifyingly amused.

His thumb moves again, pressing that button, and inwardly, the Seeker is screaming, thrashing and panting, but his frame remains still while his entire array pulse and twitch, a few more calipers burning out with the strain. 

It seems like ages before it stops, but when it finally does, the Interrogator release control of Ramjet, pulling back out of his systems. It's not as much of a release as Ramjet thought it would be. The full agony of his frame hits him, dialled down by the skilled hacker while he held the Seeker hostage in his own body. And he can hear and see the others.

Servo still in his aching valve, he's to exhausted to move an inch at first, and the Interrogator leaves him on the floor, going to the lined up slaves to choose his next victim. Sentinel comes to stand next to Ramjet, a very satisfied smirk on his faceplates.

"Have you learned something about the possible consequences of disobedience and downright sabotage, _slave_?" The Prime asks amusedly.

"Yes, Master." Ramjet croaks, voice buzzing with static.

"I'll make it very easy for you: comply with my wishes, and behave well, and things like this won't happen. The next time, I'll come up with something worse than this."

_No next tim. Pit no. He's going to be good._

"Yes, Master."

"Pull your servo out."

It hurts, but he complies, because he will have to do it eventually anyway. Sentinel bends down to look at Ramjet's gaping valve, energon dripping out from his overstretched mesh.

"You will clean yourself thoroughly when we are done with everyone here. Tonight, you will come to my berthroom."

"Yes, Master."

"Now get up. You're going to kneel next to my chair and watch the others be Interrogated. See for yourself what you have caused them to go through."

Ramjet's tank roils at the prospect of watching all the others go thorugh what he just did, the revelation that it's all his fault and they will probably hate him more than they ever hated Skywarp, but he still starts to get up slowly to avoid the worst agony. "Yes, Master."


End file.
